


Count the Saints

by seventhe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Lily is a badass, M/M, Marauders, Marauders-centric, remus and sirius figure it out, trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Pettigrew's surprising actions on Halloween of 1981 have given the Order of the Phoenix a brief but much-needed respite - and advantage, if they are brave enough to press it.  Voldemort lives, and the prophecy about Harry still stands, but -- for a brief moment in 1981, it feels like anything is possible.</p><p>(AU in which Peter remembers he's Gryffindor after all, James and Lily live, and Sirius and Remus resolve their suspicions. War!AU fic, focusing closely on the Marauders.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightcall

**Author's Note:**

> _does anyone even read Harry Potter fic anymore, help I am twelve_  
> 
> This chapter has warnings for violence / gore / torture - no more than other HP fics, but no less.
> 
> \- - -  
> Chapter One: Nightcall
> 
> _I'm giving you a nightcall / to tell you how I feel_  
>  I'm gonna drive you through the night, down the hills  
> I'm gonna tell you something / you don't want to hear  
> I'm gonna show you where it's dumped  
> but have no fear
> 
> There's something inside you / it's hard to explain  
> There's something inside you, boy  
> But you're still the same
> 
> [Nightcall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZYw0MQp_fI), London Grammar

\- - -

James took his glasses off - now covered in Harry's fingerprints - and wiped them on the edge of the robe: casually, because they'd really only be clean until the next time he picked his son up. Harry, a little over one year old, thought everything was a toy - James' glasses, Lily's hair, the cat's tail, _dirt_ \- and was not to be persuaded otherwise. Especially here, in Godric's Hollow, where the same toys appeared in the same rooms every day and there was no outdoors time, no visits to playgrounds or ponds, no Sirius or Padfoot, no variety... Nothing.  James told himself sternly that he should be proud of his son's ingenuity rather than frustrated.  It was hard to not be frustrated.

"There are cleaning spells for that," Lily murmured. She didn't look up from her letter.

"Why bother," James said, setting the glasses back on his nose. His son, toddle-crawling across the floor, was going for Morgana's tail again: another reliable toy. "They'll just get smudged again. Here, Harry, want some jack-o-lanterns?"

Harry, recognizing his name and the offer of a Conjured toy, grinned upwards. James grinned back and waved his wand, setting a string of blinking, color-shifting jack-o-lanterns  in the air in front of his boy. Harry made a happy gurgle that was probably close to words and set to attempting to reach them; James flicked his wand again to make the string of pumpkins dance in the air, and set it down on the table.  It was dark outside, probably chilly, and the house could have been cozy if it felt less like a prison.

"Halloween," he said. It was not a sigh.

"I know," Lily said, and this time she did look up; her eyes were soft. "You'll have plenty more. This is just..."  She frowned, and James stiffened. Someone knocked on the door.

They both froze.

A knock on the door?

James grabbed his wand, and Lily was standing behind him, gathering Harry into her arms, her wand already flicked from her arm-holster. James knew it could only be one person, because Voldemort and his cronies wouldn't have bothered to knock, unless Peter had told someone else where they were - but he wouldn't - so why was _anyone_ at the door? Why the hell would Peter come calling at night?

He glanced at Lily. She nodded at him, wand ready, and he could see the same unease in her eyes that was starting a slow boil in the pit of his stomach.

He opened the door, saying, "What's going on, why are--"

Peter Pettigrew pushed his way past, shut the door, and spat a spell that James didn't recognize to seal it.

"You have to leave," said Peter.  "Now."

There was a frozen moment as their eyes met. Peter's face was set and determined, his jaw locked, and his expression was a million expressions James recognized from their schooldays: nervous fear, stubborn bravery, ashamed apology, that meek sulking look he'd always caught in the shadows of Peter's otherwise joyful demeanor when he couldn't quite keep up with the other three Marauders, and... something James hadn't seen before.  The awful feeling in his belly turned into a roar, filling his ears with silent static.

"But why," Lily was saying behind him, her voice starting its slow rise into schooled panic; "Peter, what's happened, why are you even here? It's only Halloween, we've only been here a week..."

"Mine," Harry said, reaching for Lily's wand.

James kept his gaze on Peter for one more second, and Peter just looked at him, not acknowledging his wife or child behind them.

"Go," said Peter.  "Now. I'll do what I can here. Get your brooms, go - go somewhere, don't tell me - don't take anything, just go.  Go _now,_ James."

In the silence, James could heal Lily swallow.

"What's going on?" James asked, his voice quieter and harder than he'd expected, but emotions were roiling in his gut like waves, and it was hard to think with the oncoming panic, the looming feeling that this was the end.  "Is he...?"

"He's coming," Peter said. "Now get out of here, you tosser."  He managed something that looked like it might have been a smirk in a different light, different place, different century.

"I'm." James swallowed. "We're not leaving without you. If he's on his way, we can fight - Lily, you take Harry and get out-"

"James, I am _not,_ " Lily began, but Peter held up his hand and interrupted: "You're _both_ leaving. I'll be - _Wormtail_ can hide, Prongs.  You can't.  You need to go with Lily and Harry. And _soon,_ " he added. "Like, now."

" _Peter_ ," Lily whispered, and there was something on the word that froze the storm inside James: some sense of understanding, of compassion, something floating just on the outside of his comprehension. Everything hovered, quivering.

"Pass on the word _Horcrux,_ " Peter added, like this was a normal conversation, a homework party, a trip to the kitchens at night. "I don't know what it is, or what they are, but there are five of them, and they're important."  His gaze dropped.  "Now go, James. Lily.  Get Harry out of there."

Something settled into place, snapped, and broke.

"Harry's bedroom window," James said, turning to Lily; " _Accio_ broomsticks! I'll get the cat. Get Harry's sling. We're leaving."

"I," Lily began, but then she squared her shoulders and said, "Right," and headed for the staircase.

"Pete," James said, his voice soft. The two broomsticks swung through the kitchen and came to settle against his leg; he picked both up in his right hand, using his left to tap Morgana on the head and send her into the magical sleep they used when traveling with her. Bloody cat.  "Wormtail."

"No," Peter said, and there was something hard and dark in his voice.  "Just go, James. You and Lily and - and Harry.  _Go._ "

James put the sleeping cat into a nearby messenger bag, slung it crossbody, and headed for the stairs. He turned to look at Peter one last time; the other Marauder had already turned away and was casting additional charms against the door.

"Thank you," James Potter said to Peter Pettigrew.

"Go," Peter repeated, now slinging Shielding Charms over their bookcase. "I'll leave them some fun."

James took the stairs two at a time.  Lily was in Harry's bedroom, having tucked Harry into the front-carrying baby sling; Harry was chewing on a length of her hair. He handed Lily her broomstick, wordlessly. She took it, her eyes searching his face, but he tapped the window open and looked out.

Nothing.  _Yet._

"Go," he told Lily quietly. "I'm right behind you." 

She mounted, arranged Harry's weight, and was out of the window in one neat swoop; James shifted the cat bag and made his own pass out into the night.

\- - -

Peter Pettigrew, at the end, was surprisingly calm.

He hadn't been, for the last week. He'd felt the Secret-Keeper spell wrap itself around his throat, snug and warm like a scarf, and that night the same voice had delivered the location to Lord Voldemort with pride at his own cunning. 

He'd strutted for days, knowing that he'd finally done something no other Death Eater had done - something winning him great credit with the Dark Lord - and knowing that he'd won, he'd _won,_ that James and Sirius and Remus had always thought themselves so clever but now they'd been outwitted: the final prank war, and he would win it, and all because they'd stopped even pretending to care. Because _he_ had out-thought them; little useless Peter Pettigrew had been the most clever of all, and wouldn't that sting?

It wasn't until three days before the attack that his clever brain had turned on him.

They were reviewing the plans for the Halloween assault; Peter had created a model of the house in Godric's Hollow and Lord Voldemort had spent days in contemplation and preparation before the meeting was called to plan the attack.  They were reviewing lines of approach, marking the easiest path to the front and back doors along the Anti-Apparition wardline, and debating whether a Dementor from above would help the situation or create too much chaos - and Peter's mouth opened of his own accord, and he said, "My Lord, it isn't necessary.  Lily Potter can't fly very well, and James won't leave her - or the kid - behind."

Eyes turned to him, and Peter swallowed, trying to school his face to hide his surprise. Why had he said that? James was a _great_ Chaser, and he'd taught Lily to fly when they went into hiding, and even if they hadn't been outside for weeks they'd be a threat that needed managing once airborne -

The Dark Lord didn't even look up, saying casually, "Of course the _Mudblood_ can't handle a broomstick. We'll approach from the front, to intimidate them. I want them to _know_ that their time is up before it ...happens." His smile was cruel.

That night Peter had gone home, stared for a very long time at a bottle of Firewhiskey, and considered.

He could run. His rat Animagus wasn't very well known - he preferred to let the Death Eaters think he was a skilled liar and a master of persuasion, rather than a four-legged spy hiding in shadows - and he could leave. If he did it soon, while Lord Voldemort was distracted, he could probably make it - somewhere. France. America. India, for fuck's-sake. Somewhere he could hide, and watch, and wait.

He could admit his error - offer, maybe, to guard the house from above himself as penance. The punishment would be stark, and he'd never been a great flyer, but if he told the Dark Lord he had thought it over and been mistaken, maybe he could still come out of this a powerful Death Eater, on the side he'd _chosen._ Chosen, yes, rather than having fallen into it, rather than having tagged along, half-ignored, followed stumbling in the wake of three brilliant boys as he loved and envied them: he'd _chosen_ Lord Voldemort, and had been recognized for it, acknowledged on his _own_ merits. He could pretend, maybe, that he'd done more reconaissance and seen them on brooms, win some more acclaim. He could make it work.  If he were persuasive enough, he could even turn it into a positive.

Or he could -- shaking, Peter poured a splash of Firewhiskey into the empty glass, downed it, and through the burning he finally thought: Or, he could save James and Lily. And Harry.

Old anger surged up in him at the thought: did they _deserve_ it? James, who had always looked down on him, who had used him as bait or cannon fodder for years in school, who had always pushed to take advantage of his small, accessible Animagus even when Peter was sore afraid; Lily, who had been so _kind_ to him, Lily's Muggleborn _pity_ friendship almost more searing than James' in its offensive, benign, watery assumptions.  And Harry... little Harry.  Harry, who had toddled over to him, laughing; Harry, who had managed something like "Un-Peet" proudly at James' urging, Harry who hugged him and reached out his arms invitingly for _ups_ and had laughed happily and unguardedly when Peter botched a cleaning spell as if it were the best thing ever--

And through that broke a flood of other feelings. James, at his back, hexing the Slytherins who'd tied his shoelaces together their first day: James who had always had his back, who had urged him to complete his Animagus transformation despite Peter's fears and weaker skills, who had always found _value_ in Peter's rat, a way to be not just useful but _key_ to their pranks and games. Lily, laughing, dancing with him at the wedding, kissing his cheek and blushing before pushing him towards a giggling bridesmaid. James and Lily, taking him in after one of Lord Voldemort's attacks had gone so wrong, sheltering and healing him even while they were in hiding, patching up the long bloody scrape down his calf and mending his burnt robes and turning their couch into a small but comfortable bed, thinking he'd been hurt in his efforts _with_ them, not knowing it had been a raid on a Muggleborn street. James and Lily, and Sirius, defending their choice of Secret Keeper to Dumbledore; Harry, blinking up at Un-Peet and giggling, fascinated by his earring.

Peter poured another glass of Firewhiskey, although this one he sipped more slowly.

He'd wanted them to know - all of them to know - at the end - that he'd outthought and outclevered them all, that he'd won. That _he'd_ been the spy, he'd been taking their secrets straight to the Dark Lord: he'd wanted them to realize the cost of their own folly, the price they'd all pay for the way they'd belittled him and treated him.  But - was this the Firewhiskey, or himself? - wouldn't it be more fitting for them to know not only that he'd betrayed them, but that he'd _saved_ them? That stupid little Peter Pettigrew had placed them in the hand of the Dark Lord and then rescued them himself? That it was his brains, his magic, his _bravery_ that had saved their lives?

Was he just rationalizing the fact that he was too cowardly to kill his own friends? _Ex-friends,_ he corrected himself, but the damage had already been done.

Peter thought and thought, turning it all over in his mind, until he fell asleep with his head on one arm at the table and woke up with a nasty crick in his neck and an odd feeling in his stomach. He wanted to call it a hangover, but something in him thought - maybe - it was something he hadn't really felt in a long time: confidence.  He _had_ been sorted Gryffindor, after all.

And now, at the end, as he laid Dark protecting charms across James and Lily's possessions and waited for the Dark Lord to appear, Peter was surprisingly calm.

\- - -

"Just - just go," James had said, and Lily had tucked into her broom and _flew._

She'd let James take the lead, and set herself to his right, a position as familiar as breathing, as familiar as the way they slept at night: James was left-handed, her wand holster was on the right, and they'd learnt to arrange themselves around one another instinctively for protection and offense.  She'd taken a second to cast a Binding spell, holding Harry as tightly to her as one arm could manage, and she noticed James had done the same with the cat as well as slap some common Blurring Charms on them both. The spell was pedestrian, but she recognized the logic; it was low-key enough that Death Eaters might not expect it.

They flew _hard._ James was pushing for speed more than anything; they were making a long slow turn to the left, but otherwise there were no fancy mechanics like he had been drilling her on before they'd been grounded in Godric's Hollow. Just speed. Lily clutched Harry, clutched her broomstick, and gritted her teeth - and kept up with her husband. The ride might have been exhilarating had they not been fleeing a home they'd considered safe against anything.  The wind in her face was actually  disconcerting, after spending so much time behind walls. She'd forgotten to put up her hair. She was fleeing for her life and thinking about her _hair;_ this was surreal. She was glad it was a cloudy night; it wasn't looking down that bothered Lily about flying, it was looking _up_ and seeing the expanse of sky or stars above her with nothing else to put it in perspective; she felt swallowed.  She didn't mind looking down; even this high, landmarks made her feel grounded.  She didn't think she could have borne the panic with an empty sky full of twinkling stars and gaping nothingness at her back.  Even the thought made her nauseous; Lily looked at her hand on the broomstick, and at the trees below them, and at James.

They must have kept at it for an hour or two at least: muscles tensed, her grip on the broomstick becoming sweaty, then numb, then sharp.  But James was slowing, finally. Lily looked below them: a forest, of some sort, no sign of inhabitants.

She shifted her weight, switched hands, and flicked her wand out of its holster.  " _Homenum Revelio_ ," she whispered, and a jet of golden light shot from her wand into the woods below. It fizzled out into nothing and she felt no responding surge of warmth in her wand.  She looked over to James, who was slowing now. He nodded at her, a grateful look in his eyes, and descended.

They found a small clearing - _small;_ Lily had to wait for James to land before ducking through the trees herself, but the tiny opening felt safe once she'd landed - and she barely had time to set her broomstick up against a tree and adjust Harry's sleeping weight before James had her in a tight embrace.

 _Merlin._ She could feel his body shaking, adrenaline and worry; and she knew that her hands were shaking too, now that the broom and their son were released from her death-grip. She clung to him; he pulled her in with a hand on the back of her head, fingers in her hair, and she buried her face into his robes and breathed. And breathed.

They were here - where was here? - and they were alive. Harry was alive. Even the damned cat was alright. But now, the fear of the flight and the shock of the evening were starting to - not fade, but settle, like clumps of flour through a sifter, and Lily jerked upright and said, " _Peter._ "

"I don't know, Lily," James said. His voice was tight.  "I don't know."

"What was he," she began, and then she swallowed against the rising panic that had appeared in her throat.  "What _happened?_ "

"He found us."  James hadn't released her; he was speaking into her hair, and the hand on the small of her back drew her and Harry even closer. "Vol-- The Dark Lord found us.  I don't know how."  They'd learnt only to say his name in safe spaces. This was definitely not one.

"But the only one who knew was..."  Lily shook her head, forehead rubbing reassuringly against the fabric of James' robes.  She whispered, "Did Peter... give us up?"

"No," James said, but she could tell it was an automatic response, his automatic defense to anything concerning his Marauders.  She held him tight for a long moment, then felt him sag against her, ever so slightly.  "I don't know, Lily," he said, and his voice sounded broken.  "I don't know."

"But then he saved us," she whispered, and clutched Harry tighter with the arm that wasn't around James.  "I don't understand."

James pressed a kiss into her hair, then released her a fraction so that he could look into her eyes.  Merlin, his face! She leant up, placed a soft kiss on his cheek, and then pulled back again, adjusting Harry's weight as she went.

"I don't either." He shrugged, and attempted a smile, although it sat crooked on his serious expression. It faded quickly.  "All I know right now is that we weren't safe there. And if we weren't safe there..."

"I know," she said.  Harry shifted against her, and she smiled apologetically at the top of his head as she murmured a Sleeping Charm at him - and then added a Featherweight for good measure; her shoulders sighed almost audibly.  "If we aren't - if Harry isn't safe there, then where is he safe?"

James kissed the top of her head, and then Harry's for good measure, and detached himself entirely to slump onto the ground in one of those graceless moves that always made Lily want to laugh; not so much now: she wasn't sure she'd ever laugh again.  "As far as I can think - which isn't far, Lily, my brain's not up to much - we have two choices.  One, Hogwarts.  We appeal to Dumbledore for protection until we figure out what happened."

"I had the same thought," she said slowly. "What's number two?"

James raked his hands through his hair, then looked up at her slightly.  "We run," he said.  "We _go._ If Peter's - assuming we aren't - I think we're alone, which means no one knows where we are right now. So we run. France. America. _Japan._ The north _Pole._ We go somewhere Vold-- the Dark Lord can never find Harry."

"James," Lily began, "we can't just go--"  But she trailed off, because the look on his face was deadly serious, so serious she felt a chill down her spine: he meant it. Leaving Sirius, leaving Remus, leaving Peter - if Peter was still - leaving their friends, their family, leaving everything to take Harry far away from the prophecy that had marked an innocent child before he'd been _breathing_.  They could do it. They had resources, and they had magic: they could go, and keep Harry safe.

It made a morbid amount of sense.

"I don't like it either, Lily," James said, his voice a lesson in detachment. "But we have to consider it."

Lily thought.  After a moment, she took sleeping Harry from his sling and passed him to his father; James took him and _clung,_ and his eyes were dangerously dire as they checked Harry from head to toe, his voice a soft murmur like a song.  She turned to walk their little clearing.  If they went, it would have to be soon. They could alternate, Apparition and brooms, until they got somewhere they could buy a Portkey somewhere far away. And Harry could grow up safe, protected, anonymous, just another little wizard born to young parents.

And Dumbledore would write them off as dead. Sirius would mourn, and Remus would withdraw even more. And Peter would - Lily shook her head.  The Potter family would become martyrs, symbols of the war; Voldemort would push forward - but Harry, Harry would be far away, and safe.

The ferocity surprised her; Lily was _angry_ , suddenly, a blazing rush of heat she'd never felt before: angry at this stupid war, at the stupid prophecy, at the stupidity of people who thought anyone was lesser for their heritage. At Dumbledore, who'd insisted they stay safe and hide. At Sirius, who'd insisted he play decoy Secret-Keeper; at Remus, who'd vanished; at Peter, who may have betrayed _and_ saved them, and opened up the gaping wound this fury was bubbling from.  At her family, who had loved her but not followed her, leaving her with no safe haven. At The Great Dark Lord Fucking Voldemort, who she desperately wanted to punch in his horrible eyes and knee in the probably-nonexisting bollocks.

She wanted it.  She wanted to run, to leave, to show she didn't want or need _any_ of it: she didn't have to play this game. They didn't have to be a part of this. She would cry her independence to the ends of this continent, and she and James would take Harry away, some other land where she didn't have to walk these _stupid_ lines. She didn't _have_ to. They could go.

"No," she said softly, to herself, before she even knew she had decided.

She turned to look at James. His eyes were still on Harry, devouring every precious inch: their _kid,_ their little wizard, half him and half her and wholly himself, with his bubble laugh and his dangerous curiosity and his tiny smile. 

"No," she said louder, and James looked up at her.  His face looked calmer now; she needed his calm, she realized, although his eyes were still dark and his shoulders were tense.  Her panic ebbed, the fury inside of her dimming, and she drank in his presence like water after a drought.

"We," she said, and swallowed to hide the waver in her voice.  When she spoke again, it was confident.  "We owe it to Peter to find out what happened to him.  He came to save us. What if we need to save him?"

James was still for a very long moment, and then stood and walked over to her. He held out Harry; Lily took him gently and tucked him back into the baby-sling, carefully, checking every limb and each strand of hair.  She cast another Binding Charm.

"You're right," James said. "I just wish you weren't."

"I know," said Lily, and she leaned her head against his shoulder for a second in - solidarity, and courage, and mourning for the brief chance of a normal life that they were passing by.

"Hogwarts it is," said James, and he Summoned their broomsticks.  "But the roundabout way.  Let's see if we can find a wizarding town nearby."

"Where are we?" Lily asked, as she arranged herself and Harry on the broom.

James shrugged, and she surprised herself: she could laugh, after all, even if it was a brittle simile.

\- - -

Peter stood in the hallway, staring at the front door.

He'd _done_ it.  They were gone.

And now he didn't know what to do.

He still had options; his mind was churning. He could still pull a Wormtail, sneak out through the little garden and hide from the Dark Lord's wrath, then flee to some warm isle in the Mediterranean to take up a secret Muggle life.  Or he could play his way back in - tell the Dark Lord that he'd been spying on the Order, had heard something, and had come to check on the house. He could play it up, remind the Lord that he had been useful, drop a couple of the other pieces of information he'd been hanging on to, and go back with the Death Eaters. He'd pay - he'd pay Bellatrix, most likely, and Crucio was her coin - but he could pull it off. 

Or he could do neither.  He could fight.  The thought terrified him, even now, through the strange calm he'd found in the last fifteen minute;  the word _Gryffindor_ was a joke now: Peter felt so far from courage he might barf forever and not find it.  But the Dark Lord wouldn't be expecting it - and wouldn't be expecting an Animagus. There was a chance he could do some real damage before he--  Peter swallowed.

The clock on the mantle chimed softly.  They would be here soon: a parade of Death Eaters, masked and cloaked, with their skeletal Lord leading the way.

Peter searched for that sense of calm he'd found. It was a slippery thing: Peter had courage enough in a group, when he knew he had allies, but he'd never been strong on his own. It was why the Marauders had been so important to him; it was why their withdrawal after graduation had stung so hard; it was, really, why he'd turned: he found strength in numbers.  He tried to call up that sense now, picturing James and Lily at his back. Sirius and Remus behind them, wands up, bantering like they did to quell the nerves.

 _Peter._ Lily's whisper echoed through the house again: her horrified, grateful, endlessly sympathetic whisper. Just his name.

Peter shut his eyes and imagined, hard.  James, now on his left, nodding at him. Sirius clapping a hand on his shoulder; Remus tapping his head, weaving one of those protection charms he did so well with quick, neat wandwork.  None of the suspicion, none of the judgment or isolation that had been between them the past two years: just teamwork, teammates, solid and loyal and together.

Footsteps approached, and Peter realized he'd made his choice.  It was strangely easy.

The door blasted open and he winced, splinters of wood and shards of spells peppering his face; he shouldn't have been surprised, his warding charms were occasionally shit, but the noise had caught him off-guard.  Behind the door, two masked Death Eaters lowered their wands and allowed Lord Voldemort to pass.

 _That's right,_ a voice said in his head, and Peter thought it sounded like Sirius. _Just say his damn name.  Voldemort. Voldy-shorts._   And someone sounding like Remus added, _Voldy-farts. Moldy-Warts. The Dark Lump._

"Pettigrew!" the Dark Lord - _Moldy-Warts_ \- barked.  "Where are they?"

"My Lord," Peter said, and made an extensively dramatic bow he thought James and Sirius might have appreciated.  The calm was back, and with it had come a rush of confidence: warm and utterly fearless.  He might have laughed. "They aren't here."

"They are here somewhere," Voldemort said, dismissing him.  "Search the house," he ordered.  "Bring them to me alive."

The Death Eaters fanned out, tromping through the house, tossing furniture - Peter noticed some of his protective charms working there, and allowed a tight smile - and thundering up the stairs.  He edged slightly back, as Voldemort entered the house, looking around the small sitting room and curling a lip in distaste.

"Not here," said a familiar voice - Malfoy? - as three cloaked figures came back from sweeping the first floor.  Voldemort hissed and headed for the stairs. 

"My Lord," called another voice. "The cradle is empty.  No child.  I see no signs of the Potters."

"Turn the house over!" Voldemort snapped.  Peter noticed his voice had gone dark and frustrated.  Any other time it would have turned his knees to jelly; now, he felt nothing but a very vague amusement.  "Search the premises.  A basement, a  broom cupboard - leave nothing unturned."

The Death Eaters went to work, and Voldemort whirled in one motion, picking up a lamp from the coffee table and hurling it against the wall.  To Peter's surprise, his protective charm held, and there was an underwhelming soft _thud_ as the lamp bounced harmlessly off and rolled back to Voldemort's feet.  The Dark Lord kicked it, and again it bounced off the wall and rolled partway across the carpet.  Voldemort cursed and raised his wand, blasting some sort of blazing red jet of light at the lamp.  This time it shattered.

Peter was laughing, silently, hand pressed against his mouth. How had he never seen it before: Lord Voldemort was _hilarious_ when angry.  And now was his moment.  It wasn't to be a hero - he wasn't James; it wasn't to fight back, like Sirius, or to do the right thing like Remus. It wasn't even to protect anyone, like Lily.  It was just because this was his moment, small and probably insignificant in the grand matter of things, but Peter found he was ready for the Dark Lord Moldy-Shorts to know that stupid little Peter Pettigrew had gotten the best of him.  He just wanted to prove himself.  And he was ready.

The small part of him thought: _This way, they'll always owe me. They'll have to remember me forever._  The bigger part of him simply said, _Up Gryffindor,_ in a voice sounding mostly like James.

Peter bit the back of his hand to stop laughing, caught his breath, and repeated his words from earlier: "My lord, they aren't here."

Voldemort whirled and stared.  His eyes were wide, nostrils - what remained of them in that stupid face - flaring.  Peter giggled; he couldn't help it. He was high on Gryffindor courage and the sense of his friends, and he gave another elaborate bow.

"You," Voldemort hissed, and he raised his wand.

Peter _changed._   He'd never called out his Animagus form so fast - it had always scared him, doing the transformation, since they'd spent so much time reading about how many things could go wrong that even the _half your bollocks, Sirius!_ jokes had gotten stale. He'd always been careful, cautious, approached it with deliberate precision: but now it flowed, quicker than lightning, quicker than James, since Peter didn't have the time or the bother to doubt himself anymore. 

Wormtail scurried across the rug.  Ducked beneath whirling hem of cloak and robes.  Hot magic flared, flew past.

"Pettigrew!" the Dark Lord bellowed.  "Find him! Find the lousy traitor!"

Wormtail's senses were all different; the Dark Lord _smelled,_ emptiness and rotting meat and a hard metallic edge like copper. Disgusting. Scurried fast; perch flailing, yelling, safe for now.  Whiskers quivered; smell was bad.  Not found yet, though.  Heard James' voice, somehow far away: _Wormtail, you've the most useful form of us all! A bloody big stag is a bit obvious, you think? Fucking lucky, look at us._  

Wormtail sniffed. Smoke, hot magic, and decay. Focus!  He was on the Dark Lord's back, near his left shoulder.  Was aiming for his wand, but - better idea.  _Focus!_ Last Marauder prank - perfect.  Last prank ever. Way to go out. (Somehow, Peter realized, the thought was easier to accept as a rat: Cycle of nature.  Focus on now.  Sometimes, death happens. Not bad, just life.)

 _Well,_ said Sirius.  _Go ahead, mate.  Bloody brilliant._   Remus just chuckled, and he heard Lily's voice again, whispering _Peter_ with admiration.

Wormtail ran, down left arm, and sunk biting incisors into Dark Mark.

The howling was immediate, and _brutal_.  Tiny ears rang; screams everywhere, above and below and behind.  Many voices - too many voices.  Wormtail gnawed. Jaws made for gnawing.  Tasted _horrible:_ blood, but not: stale, rotten, poisoned. Thick, gummy.  Stuck to teeth.  Stuck in throat.  Bit again; gnawed and tore.  Perch shook and shrieked; hand came, wrapped around, but Wormtail dug in teeth and claws, wiggled.  Free!  Another fierce bite, then hand grabbed, squeezed - pulled, flesh still in teeth, and threw.

Wormtail hit the wall; a voice spat a dark word, and Peter felt his body wrench back into human form.  The pain was _immediate,_ as if someone had shoved a burning hot poker through his left arm.  It felt broken; it felt burnt off, lashed open to the bone.  It was agony.  He laughed, in triumph, through the thick nasty not-blood that still filled his mouth.  He coughed some up; watched it drip onto the floor.  It was red, it was black, it was green.  He realized the sensation of dull burning, through his gums and across his tongue, like slow acid - it had barely registered through the sharp searing pain in his forearm.

He realized it was poisoned. Realized this was the end.  And he stood up.

Voldemort was facing him. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, the forearm an utter wreck of flesh.  There was no one behind him - he could see a writhing body covered in robes behind him, and wondered whether he'd immobilized the entire band of Death Eaters.  Not that it mattered, because he had eaten poison.  _Rat poison._   Peter giggled, because it seemed like the stupidest thing to do, and he was done being too clever for anyone's good.

"What did they offer, Peter?" Voldemort hissed.  "To save their wretched lives.  What can they give you that I cannot?"  His voice was labored. Peter found he couldn't look at the ruins of the arm, even though he'd had his teeth in it moments ago. 

"Even now, I can be lenient."  The words came slowly, evenly, as if they were a struggle to get out.  Peter felt dizzy from the pain, hot flames scoring up his bones like nails, and the words lashed at him like dark magic.  "I have neglected you.  You've proven your cleverness, Pettigrew.  You, I will raise high above the others - after you are punished, of course, but I will be generous. On one condition."

"One condition," Peter ground out.  He wrapped his right hand around his left shoulder, trying to block the pain by squeezing.  It didn't work.  _Merlin,_ this hurt.  "I'm not licking your boots, _my lord._   My tongue's a little bit burning right now."

"Nothing you do not deserve," Voldemort spat.  "You are filth, Pettigrew, and you live now only on my lenience."  His wand raised; Voldemort's hand was shaking, but Peter had to admire it, because his own breathing felt like agony.  His tongue had gone numb, which would have been good, except that now his stomach was roiling with that acid burning.  He felt sick.  He felt glorious.

"Tell me where the Potters are," the Dark Lord said, "and I will give you another chance to win back my favor."

 _I don't know,_ Peter thought, _I really don't._   But what he said was: "No."

"Tell me," Voldemort said, his voice going scarily soft.  "Just tell me, and you may keep your miserable life - and your chance at glory at my side. Isn't that what you wanted, Pettigrew? To be known as a valuable piece of our victory? To watch everyone who overlooked you fall, one by one?"  He was urging now, and Peter thought at some point it would have sounded terribly tempting: now it just sounded desperate.

"I won't tell you," he said.  He wasn't sure why he was so insistent: he could have said _I don't know, they just left_ or even _I didn't see them go_ and it could have ended.  He was _tired_ and everything hurt and he didn't want to die puking his burnt and blackened guts onto the floor.  But he stood up, and said clearly, "No."

Voldemort snarled, and the curse hit Peter square in the stomach; he retched, but was already falling to the floor as the pain shot through every nerve, electric searing knives, razor-sharp, peeling his skin apart, scoring nerves from his bones. _Crucio!_   He tried to curl up into a ball, aware he was retching uselessly now, every breath an agonizing shudder through what was left of his throat.

And then the spell stopped.  Peter coughed, wearily, spat whatever came up.  Crawled onto hands and knees; his left arm buckled and he let it sag, all his weight on the weary bones of his right.  Craned his neck, every move a grating agony, and looked up.  The Dark Lord was bent over his wand, breathing heavily, a look of surprise on his bleached face.  _He expected the curse to last longer,_ Peter thought.  He gurgled up one last laugh.

"Even now," Voldemort snarled.  "Even now, you protect them?"

"With my life."  Peter struggled and made it to his knees.  Kneeling before the Dark Lord - something ironic about that, really.  "You asked," he said, it coming out like a pant.  "What they offered?"

The wand wavered in the air, and then stabilized, aimed between his eyes.  "Yes," Voldemort hissed.

Peter raised his head.  "Friendship," he said simply.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, and he said, "Filth like you isn't worth my time."

The wand flicked, something flashed, and everything went white.


	2. Release Your Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Woah, you takin' all I own_  
>  You feeding something make me start to see in the night  
> Won't you help me roll back home  
> The feet are stumbling, walk me down the street in the light
> 
> _Walk on or die - I will never know_
> 
> _Lowered mind, won't take my / eyes to see the break in your way_  
>  _Release your problems, release your problems, release your problems_
> 
>  _Release Your Problems_ , Chet Faker

Sirius Black took a deep breath -

_"Potter's Cottage is at the end of Blackthorn Street in Godric's Hollow," said Dumbledore._

\- and Apparated.

The scene he came upon was a nightmare, and there was a moment - a long moment, although he didn't remember breathing - where Sirius thought, hoped, _begged_ that maybe, just maybe, he had Apparated to the wrong place.

"Black," said a familiar voice, and Sirius' first breath at Potter Cottage was choked and cold.

The house was in odd shambles: walls mostly standing, parts of the roof still intact, but gaping holes throughout, larger than Sirius was tall.  Every window was blown out, glass twinkling in wandlight on the yard like ice.  Through the gaps he could see burnt pieces of framework and beams, a charred skeleton.  Parts of the siding were hanging loose, dancing to a light breeze.  The sight froze him: this macabre disaster couldn't have been where James and Lily were, where Harry was...

"We haven't found the Potters," Mad-Eye Moody said, in what passed as a gentle tone.  "No evidence that they were here when this all happened."

Sirius remembered to exhale.

He turned to nod to Moody. The other man looked grim. His sleeves were rolled up, wand in hand, and his new magical eye was scanning Sirius - identity check, surely, because he didn't ask any of their usual security questions.  Motion behind Moody drew Sirius' eye; a collection of Aurors, not all familiar, were opening the back doors of a St. Mungo's Ambulatory Carriage.  Behind them, in the air, floated three forms wrapped in black shroudcloth.  The bodies did not move in any breeze; they were eerily still.  As Sirius watched, one of the Aurors pointed her wand, and the first - corpse - floated slowly into the back of the Carriage.

"Who are they?" Sirius asked.  His throat felt dry.

Moody glanced over his shoulder, then looked at Sirius. He felt oddly under examination; Moody's lips pursed, and he said finally, "Three Death Eaters.  We'll take care of them."

Sirius breathed in. Exhaled.  "Dumbledore said you had asked for me?"

"Aye."  Moody turned and began walking towards the cottage, gesturing for Sirius to follow.  It took him a long moment to tear his eyes away from the floating bodies, dark and peaceful - had they been wrapped in their Death Eater robes? He was half surprised the bodies hadn't somehow been rigged to explode at time of death; that would have been a Voldemort thing to do - and followed.  Dead Death Eaters was a _good_ thing. It meant James and Lily had - had put up a fight - had managed to take some of them out before they - whatever.

"We have two working theories," Moody said, holding what was left of the door open for Sirius in a completely useless gesture of politeness: the door was nothing but scraps on one hinge.  "The first is that they've been taken. We don't need you for that. The second is that they got away. You know Potter better than anyone. Look around and see if you can find anything to support that, or any hints as to where they may have gone."

"If they've been taken," Sirius began, his voice more of a growl than he intended, "I _will_ be following them, and don't you think-"

"Simmer down, son."  Moody shifted so that he was looking Sirius dead in the eye.  "Something big happened here.  Dark Lord's suffered a major blow, or so we think.  Still gathering intelligence. But so far, based on the evidence we have... the Potters aren't dead here, so its most likely that they're safe somewhere else."

Sirius shook his head, but the scene behind Moody  was starting to register in his peripheral vision: and Padfoot's senses were telling him things.  Blood, hot magic; something was rotting.  He glanced around. Sprays of blood covered the room in odd streaks: it was as if someone had indiscriminately flung paint around at waist-height. There was one pool of blood in the carpet over by Lily's chair - he recognized the ugly old thing from their first apartment - and then to the other side, a larger stain.  This one was darker, larger, as if evil-tainted blood had seeped into the carpet; a few feet away from it was a huge scorchmark. 

"What the fuck," Sirius said.

Moody chuckled, the sound odd in this house of horrors.  "Fucked if I know, Black.  Leave the tracing to my team.  You, see if you can figure out what James did."

Taken aback by Moody's composure for what was likely the four-hundredth time, it took Sirius a few seconds after Moody left to focus himself.  Sure, ignore the bloodstains in the carpet and the smears against the walls.  Easy.  Piece of fucking cake with Ogden's Firecherries on top. 

Okay.  What would James and Lily do?  If Voldemort was coming - if they, somehow, knew, or if they had a few precious moments -- _Harry._   Whatever they did, Harry was the center and the key.  Harry was the _only_ thing that mattered.  So: Sirius headed up to find Harry's room.  Whatever they did, it would start there.

There was one particularly nasty pool on the floor outside the room with the crib, but Sirius side-stepped it and entered his grandson's bedroom.  He'd never seen this one, and James and Lily hadn't had time to decorate; they'd only been here a week.

 _Peter._   Sirius' thoughts derailed for a moment.  He'd suggested Peter be the Secret-Keeper - had something happened to Pete?  Had Voldemort gotten him, tortured him - killed him? Obviously, the secret had gotten out. Was Peter okay?

 _Focus, Padfoot._   Peter was in less danger from Voldemort than the Potters were.  First things first.

There wasn't much in the room.  No blood-spray;  no burnt patches.  He hadn't been able to see Harry's room before: these windows were still intact, actually, one open to the night breeze.  Sirius peeked into the crib: neatly made; that would mean they hadn't put Harry to bed yet when ...whatever... happened.  Nothing else here.

Sirius went to the open window and leaned out slightly.  It was _very_ open, almost all the way.  Their backyard was small and butted up against a quaint line of trees, which led to a piecemeal woods. It was exactly opposite from the road, where anyone who'd heard the address from the Secret-Keeper would have appeared.

Sirius breathed in and let Padfoot's instincts take over a tiny bit. He could smell dark magic in the room, but very faintly - as if someone had passed through recently, but not lingered.  Otherwise, the room smelled fresh; the open window had probably helped with that, the breeze from outside...

Sirius jerked up, banged his head on the window frame, swore so loudly they could hear him in Spain, and tore downstairs.

"Brooms!" he yelled as he passed Moody, doing some sort of complicated wandwork over one of the stains; the rune network he had been building in the air fizzled out, and Moody turned a look on him that would have in fact incinerated a lesser man.  But Sirius was dashing into the kitchen, throwing cabinets open.  "Have you found their brooms yet?"

"No."  Moody had gotten to his feet and was watching Sirius fling open every door he could find. "But we haven't searched the house yet, let alone the garage or the shed."

"They would be _here,_ " Sirius babbled, running past Moody to the front room. "In the house. They would have them on hand, in reach of an easy _Accio._ James taught Lily to fly - _really_ fly - and I know they had been counting on that, no one would expect her on a broomstick, not with a baby."  There was a small cupboard in the hallway, and he threw it open triumphantly.  It was empty, but two brooms could have easily fit in the space.

Moody grunted.  " _Accio Potter broomsticks!"_ He flicked his wand; the tip gleamed.  They both waited, tense, as the tip pulsed a couple times: and the light died out.

"Harry's window," Sirius said to Moody, and he wasn't even sure if he was making sense or not but the relief had swept through him fast and _hard_ ; his knees felt weak, and he weirdly felt like laughing, surrounded by blood and burnt magic.  "They got out, Moody.  Broomsticks.  _They're okay."_

\- - -

They had found a road after a few hard hours of flying, and followed it to the edges of what appeared to be a small town.  He and Lily had landed well outside and then walked through the forest; he'd found a point they could watch from, and Lily had Transfigured some leaves into some kind of padding to make a pseudo-bed for Harry. They didn't dare wake him up yet, although they knew sustaining a magical sleep wasn't the best thing for a 15-month-old; James only hoped that they would be able to wake him up soon. That they'd be _safe_ soon. Neither he nor Lily had slept at all: they weren't tired.

As the sun rose, they watched a few people out and about in the town: a young boy delivering papers, an old lady opening the door to a bistro and pulling chairs and tables out onto a patio.  A jogger came through.  They watched a young gentleman stop at the front of a coffeeshop - and wave a wand, to raise what looked like the unmarked side of a building and reveal a tiny cafe.

"Wizarding town," Lily whispered.

James sighed. He wasn't sure whether it was better or worse: they had more chances of being found - or recognized - in a magical village, but he wasn't sure they'd be able to pass in a Muggle town without raising suspicions: and they would certainly need magic to get in touch with Dumbledore.  A young woman had emerged now and was waving her wand to water a series of plants circling a little pleasant park with a fountain. 

"What do you think?"  Lily sat back on her heels.  There were smudges of dirt on her face, and her hair was a tangled and windblown mess.  She had never looked so beautiful, and James' heart flipped over. At some point, he'd have to think through their situation, but all his mind could focus on now was that they were alive: Harry was alive, Lily was alive, alive, _alive and safe._

"I think we have to try it," James said, keeping his voice low.  "The longer we wander, the longer they'll have to catch up to us.  And Dumbledore might not even know we're gone."

"I'm sure he does," Lily soothed.  "Didn't he have -  charms on the cottage, or something?"

James shrugged.  No matter what, they had to get to Hogwarts, quickly and safely. And that meant flying the whole way was out. Same with Apparating: they didn't even know where they were, or what Apparition Line was the closest one for them to catch; and Apparition Lines were public, which meant visibility. No, they had to hope Dumbledore would have a way for them to get to Hogwarts. Which meant they had to ask.

"Right."  Lily backed away from the thicket they'd been spying through, picked up Harry and the transfigured blankets, and headed back into the woods.  James scooped up Morgana's bag and followed her, as quietly as he could, somewhat confused; Lily continued on for a good ten minutes before she stopped and set Harry down again. 

"We should be far enough away that they won't be able to detect any Charms," Lily said, flicking her wand out of its holster.  "Now, come here. What color hair do you want?"

To his surprise, James laughed.  "What are you going to do to me?"

Lily didn't laugh, but her mouth twitched.  "Witches learn all kinds of Cosmetic Charms from each other in school.  It's perfectly safe, I promise. We can't - we can't look like ourselves."

James sighed. She was right, of course.  "Whatever you think is best."

"Hmm."  Lily paused, tapping her wand on her lips, and then said, " _Cosmeta Chroma,_ " and tapped James on the head.  It felt like a bucket of cold water; he shook his head involuntarily.  "Stop moving," Lily said, and then repeated " _Cosmeta Chroma"_ and tapped him on the nose.  This one felt like an ice-cold wave crashing into his face.  He shook his head and gasped for air.

"I don't know anything to do with your glasses," she said.

James grinned.  "I can do that one. It's temporary, but I've used it in Quiddich before."  He took off his glasses, positioned his wand at the point between his eyes, and whispered, " _Videre._ "  The blurry landscape before him began to crawl into focus, slowly; Lily was a splash of red and blue, then a collection of hair and face and hands, and then: "There," he said.  "Just help me remember to recast it when we're alone."

Lily looked at him, and that sad smile quirked up on her face again.  "Not bad, James Potter," she murmured.

James picked up Harry.  "I don't - not on Harry, okay?"

"No," Lily said.

"What about you?" he asked, turning around - but Lily had already gathered her hair at the back of her head in a streaming, tangled copper-red ponytail, and was holding her wand underneath it, horizontally.

"I can do a little bit more," she said, her voice tight, and then said, " _Barbera Simplex._ " 

Her wand passed through the mass of gathered hair with a flash of light, and Lily's hands came down slowly as strands fell forward to frame her face.  James swallowed.  What was left was chin-length, still tousled from wind.  It made her look incredibly stark, without the long waves to soften her cheekbones.  Her eyes stood out like diamonds in a ring. Her lips were tight. 

"You pick," she said, and James heard her voice trying not to waver.  "Light, or dark?"

"I," James said, because it was fucking stupid to be thinking about her hair when their lives were in danger.  "Dark.  Go dark."

" _Cosmeta Chroma,_ " Lily said, tapping herself on the head, and a deep brown-black started at the crown of her head and poured its way to the tips of her hair.

"Do I - do I need anything with my face?" she asked, suddenly tentative. "I gave you - ruddy cheeks, and thinner eyebrows.  Maybe just my eyes."  James nodded, and she cast the Cosmetic Coloring charm again, tapping herself in the middle of her forehead.

She looked at him.  Warm amber-brown eyes, full of questions, were framed with dark locks.

"Well, I'd know you anywhere," he quipped, light-hearted, because worrying about their appearances was suddenly actually better than worrying about their lives; "but I doubt anyone else would."

"Good," Lily said.  She turned, placed the remains of her beautiful long red hair on the ground, and said, " _Incendio._ "

They both watched it burn.

Afterwards, it was easy for them to find the road, and stroll into the town like travelers on a visit.  James led them right into the bistro and ordered a coffee and a tea, and asked after an owlery and a place to get lodging.  Lily held a sleeping Harry and guarded the messenger bag with Morgana, and said little.  Without the curtain of hair, her face was infinitely more expressive: she looked tense, but when she smiled at him, the smile was real.

"Two streets that way," James told her, his voice low as if he were murmuring  sweet nothings. "Owl Post and an inn.  We'll need a bit of a story."

Lily handed him Harry and said, "I'm going to the loo - let me think a bit."

James looked down at his sleeping son.  _Merlin, Harry, what have we gotten you into?_ With Lily gone, all the worries he'd been holding away began to bubble back up to the surface: was Peter okay? Where were they? Were there Death Eaters in this town? It seemed much too small to be a focus for Voldemort, but there was no way to tell, was there? A young couple with a one-year-old, out of place and looking for a place to stay: wasn't that a dead giveaway?"

"Here you go."  The voice snapped him out of his reverie and he started, his hand moving towards his wand before he realized it was the cashier.  "Scones are fresh - I thought I'd bring you one, on the house.  You look like you need cheering up, laddie, and my bakery'll do that."  She winked at him.  "The magic is in the icing."

"Thank you," James said, gently moving his arm back around Harry. 

"Will you want anything for the boy?"  The old lady bent to peek at his sleeping face, in the way of old ladies everywhere.  "What a cutie. Muffin, maybe?"

"I'd rather he sleeps," James managed to say. He was a _Marauder;_ he'd spun better lies than this in his first year.  "He was - up all night. Doesn't sleep well, away from home."  He could see the question forming in her eyes, and added: "But I'll have another scone for my wife.  I'm happy to pay."

"Oh, I'll bring her the orange cream one, then," she said, and bustled back behind the counter.

Lily emerged from the back hallway just in time to meet her breakfast.  "Oh," she said, surprised and trying to look pleased.  "Thank you."

"You two look like you need a pick-me-up, if you don't mind me saying."  The cashier set the scone down in front of Lily and waited. 

James opened his mouth, but Lily beat him to it.  "We're camping along the Madison Trail, but Ha- Hayden here had a rough night last night, so tonight we're looking for a real bed rather than a tent."

He closed his mouth, and Lily smiled at him warmly; her eyes, however, were tense.  "We appreciate the help," he added.

"Of course!"  The old woman smiled and set down the second scone. "You're looking for The Rabite and Ra, right next to the Owl Post. They'll have a good lunch there for you, too."

"Thank you," Lily said, and turned to her tea and scone. As the old woman returned to her kitchen, she whispered, "There are brochures back there. I've swiped one, so we can study it once we get to the inn, but a wizarding nature trail seemed the best option for a family trip."

"You're brilliant," James said, and this time her smile was a little less shadowed.

They finished breakfast quickly, nerves still pricking with anxious urgency, and James left the cashier a generous tip.  It was still early, so they didn't meet too many people on the street: another jogger, an old man on a wizarding bicycle, someone opening up a bookstore.  The Owl Post was clearly marked, and James paid his two-Sickle fee for a piece of parchment and a quill.

He and Lily looked down at the blank parchment for a long time.

"Here," Lily said finally, reaching out for the quill. "Your handwriting's atrocious."

"Yours is very recognizably readable," James pointed out.

"Which is why," Lily murmured, "I'll write with my left hand."  She took the quill and fumbled with it, clearly not used to it, while James bounced Harry to block the view of the young lady behind the counter.

 _My Dearest Albus,_ Lily wrote. It was a crude mockery of her usual neat script, but perfectly legible.

_It has been ages since I have seen you, and I miss you intensely. This letter comes to you from a wee village, where I am stopping for a brief respite in my travels.  However, my trip has been ruined by a desperate need to hear your voice.  Please, write back immediately, and tell me how and when we can meet again. I cannot wait -  we have so much to discuss!_

She glanced up at James, who was nodding approval as she wrote, and then passed the quill to her write hand to sign in her usual, precise, Lily Evans Potter handwriting:

_Yours always,_

_Morgana_

James snorted.  Lily shook her head.  "He always did love that cat," she murmured, sparing a fond glance towards the messenger bag.

James rolled up the parchment and counted out fifteen Sickles for fastest delivery.  "Minerva McGonagall," he said, "Hogwarts Castle. And this:" He counted out an additional ten Sickles. "This is for the reply we're expecting. We're staying next door."  Sending it to McGonagall was almost as bad as directly to Dumbledore, but there wasn't really any other route as guaranteed.

They both watched the owl fly away with their hopes.

The Rabite and Ra was a middling inn, neither fancy nor trash.  They took a standard room with a pull-out bed for Harry, and once the door was closed, they stood in the middle of it, staring at each other.

"Well," James said finally, breaking the silence.  He pulled the messenger bag over his head, reached in, and gently sat Morgana down on the floor.  He muttered the counter-charm and tapped her head.  She woke slowly, blinking her eyes and stretching, before moving to sniff first Lily's shoes, then his, and proceeded to stalk out the boundaries of the room.

"Let's wake Harry," Lily said gently.

\- - -

Remus clawed his way to wakefulness, convinced that something unusual had broken his sleep.  He was exhausted, but just as paranoid as always; his body might be sluggish, but his brains were straining, trying to parse through the most recent seconds of memory.

It was harder to convince an exhausted body to wake when it was at the bottom of a puppy-pile, as well; the werewolves all preferred sleeping outside any night that wasn't near-freezing, and honestly it hadn't been too hard for Remus to adjust: memories of Marauder sleepovers helped soothe him into sleep, if not relaxation.  He could feel Agathe's arm thrown over his belly, and two small forms curled against him on the other side: Binat and Willam, the young ones. He recognized Auntie's snoring on their other side, and by scent could tell Robert was curled into the space above their heads.  Willam was half-strewn over Remus like the most uncomfortable blanket.  Mirian was probably back-to-back with Agathe.

In Remus' groggy memory, it was James with an arm thrown over him, and Peter back-to-back with James, Sirius taking his role as a blanket made of elbows and hair flung over all three.

An odd noise echoed over the field they were lying in, and Remus' brain caught up with him: an explosion.

He jerked himself to sitting, shedding Agathe's arm and Willam's dubious cover.  "What is...?" Agathe murmured, the other wolves around him stirring. 

"I heard something, in the woods," Remus said, firmly shaking Robert and Binat to wakefulness.  On the other side of the children, Auntie's old eyes met his, filled with bleak determination.  "Take the children and go find Ali, back at the usual camp.  I'll investigate and meet you there." Ali was Greyback's Beta, one of the seconds-in-command who ran his smaller packs; Ali was one of the better ones, ruthless but not beyond reason, realizing a well-kept pack could do much more damage than a broken one. 

"You shouldn't go alone, Remus," Mirian growled, and Robert answered with a lower growl deep in his throat. 

"I'm the only one with a real wand," he said, holding the tool up as evidence.  In truth, it wasn't his _real_ wand - fear of losing that had led him to buy a second, similar but not nearly as closely bound to him, to take on this horrible mission. 

Agathe held up the honed, whittled piece of a branch Remus had been training her to channel spells through.  "This is better than no support," she said softly.

"Which is why I need you with the kids."  Remus hopped to his feet, feeling bones creak and joints ache.  He missed his _bed._ A bed.  _Any bed._   "Trust me, I'm not going to engage, just investigate."

Auntie stood just after he did and brought both of the kids - cubs - up with her.  "You be careful, Remus," was all she said, and she and the kids took off in a long slow jog.

"Go," Remus said, jerking his head after the moving wolves, and the remaining pack members gave him a nod of recognition and set off to follow.

A third explosion, more dampened than the other two, gave Remus a heading to chase after.  A quick tap of his wand Disillusioned him; any wizard who knew his wand would know to look for footprints, but maybe he could at least buy some time.  Was it Voldemort?  _Voldemort,_ Remus thought, picking up his own long jog, _wouldn't have waited for the children to get away._

A flash caught his eye this time, and Remus veered towards it, slowing his pace as he neared a clearing in the woods.  Oddly, the flash of light looked familiar, and the sound jogged his memory _hard._   Fireworks.  Muggle fireworks, at that - he knew the sound well-enough from summers with James and Sirius and Peter, when James would (horribly) pose as a Muggle and buy as much as he could change Muggle money for and they would set them off in whatever remote place they could find that week.  _Maybe it's just kids?_

But his nose picked up something else familiar. 

Remus refreshed his Disillusioning Charm and sidetracked a bit to the east, such that he could approach the clearing from a slightly different angle.

This time, moving very slowly and straining tired werewolf hearing, he heard not only the hiss-pop-bang of another firework, but whispers against the flashes of golden light and the scent of burnt cardboard and ash.  "Do you see him yet?"

"Thought I saw somethin'," said the very recognizable voice of Frank Longbottom.  "But must have been the wind."

Remus froze.

"Well," Alice Longbottom whispered, "he'll recognize at some point that these aren't actual explosions.  Another?"

"Yeah," Frank said, "I kinda like these."

"You would," Alice murmured, and Remus heard the familiar hiss-pop-bang again. The clearing was lit up in green cinders this time.

"Very nice," he said, stepping into the clearing - holding his wand in front of him.

"Remus," Alice breathed, but Frank stood and raised his wand in return.

Remus nodded to him to go first.  "What are the last two Order passwords you remember?" Frank asked him, warily.

"Licorice Ladybugs and Champagne Crisps," Remus said promptly.  "They're some of my favorites, and I thought it was funny.  What did I say to you when your son was born?"

Frank's frown quirked slightly upward as Alice said, "That he had my nose, Frank's ears, and the hair of a Behemoth."

Remus let his wand sag slightly as he added, "And a bit later, the smile of a real charmer.  What are you _doing_ here?"

"We need - Something's happened, Remus. Something big. Gamechanger, really.  Of course we are under solemn oaths to not tell you anything, under Dumbledore's orders -" Frank chuckled darkly as Alice rolled her eyes.  "But we're here to take you  home."

"Home?" The word escaped Remus before he could swallow its soft, secret betrayal: was there a home anymore? James and Lily hidden away, Peter too busy for any of them, and the apartment Sirius and he had shared now full of dusty awkward silences and broken accusations lying on the carpet with last week's newspaper.

"I can't - the pack, the kids..."  He was stalling and he _knew_ it, but he'd hurled himself into this mission to get _away_ from it all and with time's usual treachery had found small things to love in it: the cubs and their reckless, selfless joy at nature; Auntie's sharp grin; teaching some of the more gifted to channel their magic through damned sticks or rocks.  In a miserable world ruled by Greyback those moments had become even more precious, and for this brief moment the thought of leaving them was unbearable.

"Remus," Alice said gently, dropping the wand he'd barely registered to put a hand on his arm.  "Trust me - it's better this way. They'll think you vanished - taken, or dead, right? They'll be extra careful for a while, which will help them more than Greyback ever will.  James and Lily, they - they need you, now."

"We all do," said Frank, gruff honesty breaking through Remus' shock and propelling him to, against all odds, crack a smile.

"Fine," he said with a lightness he didn't quite feel, "let's go see what Dumbledore is up to now."

\- - -

Lily had rolled morning watch; James had let her sleep far past midnight, but she still felt like there was dull grey cotton stuffed behind her eyes.  The panic, the adrenaline, the lack of sleep, the physical toll of flying too hard: they had all shown up with bills due marked in red ink and all she had was 6 hours of fitful rest to stave them off with.

It wasn't working.

At least Harry had taken the news as well as possible; he'd snuffled a bit, but had been promptly cheered up by a walk around the town, a muffin from the bakery, watching Morgana chase a tiny bug.  They'd had to undo and redo all the cosmetic charms, explaining to Harry that this was "a very important game," which made him eager to tell every passing witch or wizard who stopped to coo, " _imp_ ant _game,_ " which was luckily still too unintelligible to give them away.

She stroked her hand through Harry's hair. He was curled up with a small stuffed animal they'd purchased for him today, with Morgana faithfully sprawled at his feet.  She could see the rise and fall of James' breathing in the nearby bed; her James slept like he did everything else, with absolute reckless abandon.

The rush of fierce anger gave her strength: she'd worked so hard for this family, basically sacrificed her own for it - her parents had stayed in touch until their car accident, but she was _dead_ to Petunia - none of them deserved this, this fear and hiding and waiting, waiting in the dark.  She was _done_ with this, done with the fear and the accusations and the petty, _stupid_ stuff that drove them apart.  She was _not_ going to hide any longer. She was _done_ with hiding and _finished_ with stupid prophecies: she was Lily Evans fucking Potter and she wasn't going to be scared any more.

The knock on the door still made her jump.

James wrenched himself from the bed, hair askew and wand in hand, mumbling something with a sloppy wand wave; the charms and wards they'd put around the door glowed faintly.  Gold; all gold. No sign of suspicion or Dark Magic, no sign of danger. 

Their eyes met.  LIly nodded, and went to open the door.

"Good morning, ma'am!" A young pageboy stood outside the door, his uniform crisp and face bright with eager youth.  "Here's your paper, complimentary.  For breakfast options, you can buy from the cart here, or purchase a full meal in the dining room. Can I get you something, or a voucher?"

Lily blinked, and ran a hand through what remained of her hair.  "Thanks," she said, reaching out blindly for the paper.  "We'll just have something, uh, from the cart - those scones look familiar."

The pageboy grinned. "Right down the street, ma'am.  How many?"

"Three," Lily said, still stunned, and then: "Shoo," to Morgana, who was twining around her ankles.

"Good morning to _you,_ little one," the pageboy said, and tipped his hat at the cat.  He then deftly packaged up three scones in paper wrapping and handed them to Lily.  "Drinks? Tea, coffee? They're also available downstairs."

"No, thank you," Lily said, her wits finally coalescing.  "We'll be down in a bit to get them."

"You're welcome, ma'am. Two sickles three." 

Lily carefully left the door open a pinch and retreated to count the coins from their money-bag. When she returned to the hallway, Morgana was purring and the young page-boy was delicately scratching the base of her head.

"Me mum has cats," he said, standing back up to take her money. "I can't wait to get my own. Oh!"  He went to the bottom of the cart, double-checked something on the wall, and pulled out a rolled parchment note.  "Number 203, waiting for a post, right? Here you are."

Lily froze, then reached out for it with a hand she hoped wasn't shaking too badly.  "Yes, thank you.  And thank you for the morning service."  She dropped a sickle into the young man's hand and smiled, hoping it didn't quiver.

"My pleasure, ma'am. Enjoy your stay."  And he set off cheerfully with his cart, off to the next room.

Lily picked up Morgana in the hand with the scones and shut the door behind her.  Dropped the cat, and locked the door.  Looked at James.  Harry, bless him, was still asleep.

"Scones," she said, her voice definitely shaking now.  "And a letter."

James dropped his wand, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed.  "Come here," he said, and patted the bed.

Lily scooted up next to him and took a moment to lean against his shoulder.  They were stronger together; always had been, even if it had taken them both years to figure the details out.  She picked up the letter and untied the twine with steady hands.

_My Dearest Morgana,_

_It is too long since we have spoken - longer, since we have set eyes upon one another. I myself miss stroking your hair while we sit by the fire - ah! I find myself moved to action by your plea.  Simply hold your wand to this parchment and speak my full name, and we will be able to converse once again like days of old._

_Yours,_

_Albus Dumbledore._

"Gods," Lily said, unable to prevent a shiver.

"It could be a trap," James agreed.  "It could be an imposter. It could be - hell, it could be an anything."

"Stroking your hair," Lily murmured, a laugh bubbling up inside of her, "while we sit by the fire.  Hells, that's either Dumbledore or a really lucky impostor."

"Morgana," James called, clicking his tongue.  "Come here and tell us if this letter from your lover is the real thing."  He looked at Lily in all seriousness and she stifled a wild chortle.

"Whassat?" Harry murmured from his bed, as Morgana stretched and stirred.

"Come here, little love," LIly said gently. "Bring the cat."

Harry scooped her up in his arms and toddled over to the bed, depositing the sleepy cat before raising his arms up for Lily to lift him up.

James, very seriously, held the letter out to Morgana.  She sniffed it, tilted her head, sniffed again, then snugged her face against the edge of it and started purring.

"Well," Lily said, a hysterical laugh in the back of her throat.  "Do we trust our lives to the cat?"

" _Good_ cat," Harry declared, reaching out to tug her tail.

James Accioed their remaining belongings and shrugged.  "Either that or we wait here, Lils.  I'm not sure I can take more waiting."

"It has to be him, right?" Lily asked. She pulled Harry into her lap, then pulled the cat into Harry's, where they would both have their hands on her.

"Alright then."  James sighed, shoving all their belongings into the bag.  "Harry, you hold on to Morgana and Mummy, okay?  Lils, here, you take the paper first-"

They rearranged themselves on the bed so that everyone was in contact - James, Lily, Harry, cat, things, letter.  Lily looked up at her husband.  His eyes were strong, and she thought again: _I will not be afraid any more._

"Here we go," she said.

James gripped her hand harder and brought his wand up to touch the letter.  "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

The familiar tug of a Portkey caught them through the navel, and tugged, and suddenly the world was only streaks of grey.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oh god there are still people in this fandom and they are nice and fun, how incredible_
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> dxxxxxxxx - that is from my cat
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> So in the interim since the first chapter, I had PRK - laser eye surgery - and am still recovering. It's a slow recovery. You can't see shit. This being said, please forgive any typos you might find, I was blind for days. So I hope to be more on-point with updates in the future, as my eyes should at some point settle into some semblance of accurate vision soon. Very soon. I hope. Thank you all for all the fond comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Subtitle for this fic: _Fuckery and Balls_
> 
> Fic Title: [Count the Saints](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i4JzW2q9qjs) by Foxes
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>  _seriously does anyone read this fandom anymore_. I am a million years late and tragically unhip about it. I've been dreaming of this AU forever, though, so: why not.


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